Welcome all to ๐๐ผ๐ป๐ป๐ผ๐น๐น๐โ๐ ๐๐ผ๐ฟ๐ป๐ฒ๐ฟ, a series of weekly reviews by Charles Connolly – an artist in his own right. Here, Charles delves into the greatest brand new singles brought to you by the best unsigned artists on our electrifying and eclectic set of ๐๐๐ฌ ๐ผ๐ง๐ฉ๐๐จ๐ฉ ๐๐ฅ๐ค๐ฉ๐ก๐๐๐๐ฉ playlists.
๐๐ฌ๐๐ฃ ๐๐ค๐ฃ๐ – ๐๐๐ก๐๐ง๐ฎ๐๐ฃ
Charles swans alongโฆ
Boyds. Iโve always been fascinated by boyds. โBoyds?? Who are THEY??โ – ah sorry. Boyds, you know. Boyds of prey. Boyds of paradise. Boyds of a feather. This boyd has flown. I donโt mean William Boyd and Pattie Boyd. Boyds, YOU know! So yes, ever since I was about 11, boyds have very much been a part of my life. There they were, all around. Captivating and even intriguing, each in their own way. Little ones, curvy ones, ones of all different colours, shy ones, brash ones, elegant ones, and ones clamouring for attention. Of course, I had my favourites, but I enjoyed having them all around. Sometimes I would even try to speak to them. They rarely spoke back. Sometimes they would just give a flutter and turn away, only to disappear. But then as my teens started to really take hold, I became more determined. Then more so in my early twenties. I really became an avid boydwatcher. And it was then that I started to learn their language. They were not afraid of me anymore, although I could still discern a certain amount of caution on their part. Which is fair enough; how were they to know if I might pounce at any time like a puddy tat? That my friendliness wasnโt all a ruse in order to reach out and grab their plump breast? I would never be so brazen. I actually LOVE boyds.
As to the winged variety, I hadnโt really given them much thought at all until parakeets came to dwell not too long ago. Yes, I even wrote a song about them. But my boydal fascination was piqued by them. It made me pay more attention to ALL of them. And London is FULL of winged boyds. I couldnโt imagine living anywhere without being surrounded by my avian friends. And Itโs not just pigeons, sparrows and (more recently) parakeets. Sparrows are now quite rare in London, sadly. But I have noticed far more geese, quacking through the air; not to mention the odd red kite! Magpies and crows continue to guard with suspicion, as if one day the gates of the Tower of London might be open to them – they wonโt; itโs strictly ravens only. But they practise, nevertheless. I did experience one sad sight a few weeks ago, though. On a surprisingly green patch of grass, lay an unmoving black shape. I assumed at first that it was a black carrier bag, but the day was blustery and there was no flutter in said black shape. As I approached closer, I realised to my horror that it was a dead crow. Then I thought โHa! Itโs a murder of crows!โ (Sorry, moyder) – which amused me no end, successfully diluting the trauma that filled me for the following five minutes.
But then there are Londonโs Royal Parks, of which there are eight. And frankly, they are splendid. I have never quite seen anything close in any other city or even country. Remember, these are parks, not nature reserves, woodlands or countryside. My particular favourites being Regentโs Park, St. Jamesโs Park, Richmond Park and Kensington Gardens. There is such elegance and peace in all of these parks, to the extent that I often completely forget that Iโm in busy-busy London. But there is one thing (aside from grass) that ties these Royal parks together. The most elegant creature resides there. The swan. I can watch swans for hours (okay, ten minutes), as they glide atop the shimmering glass, looking as though they have been crafted in the Murano glass factory in Venice. And when a little kid gets too close, the majestic flap of its wings is godly! The swanโs is even MORE impressive. The kid retreats and runs back to mummy. The swan scoops for thirst, and moves on in stoic, noble continuation. The sad truth is that, like everything, it doesnโt live forever. It will eventually feel its time ebbing towards a close. And this is when they sing the tune of angels: A-WARR-KWEK-KWEK, A-WARR-KWEK-KWEK!! Okay, so it ainโt no tune of angels. They may look like theyโve been sent by the heavens, but they sound like a cockney newspaper salesman from a hundred years ago. And so we experience the swan song.
A little boyd told me thereโs a new song just released into the wild. Who dat little boyd? Valeryan. What dat new song? โSwan Songโ. Weโre going folkly. But foyst…! What exactly is a swan song? Traditionally, it means that final gasp of brilliance before their eternal sleep. For Freddie Mercury, it was โWho Wants To Live Forever?โ. For Bowie, it was the album โBlackstarโ. It is so touching, so moving, and very often solidifies their name in the annals of time. It can of course go wrong. Some might expect to receive rapturous applause for the genius within, but instead get lukewarm 3-out-of-5 star reviews, complete with a disappointed raised eyebrow. And then they drop off the planet without so much as an โour thoughts go out to the familyโ. Very sad, indeed. Usually, though, the swan song is valid proof that they really could achieve greatness right up to the end, and itโs therefore even more of a tragedy that they were taken from us before they sucked. But then again, maybe their demise was BECAUSE they put so much into that final fling. The art was just too much, its power too great, and the body could take no more. Thatโs possibly a thing. What Valeryan did was different. This is simply the title of her latest release. Up to a point, it is more literal than you might imagineโฆ
She sings of boyds. Wild boyds flying free, to be precise. It is beautiful and frankly strangely refreshing in this world of โGonna go to the club; take some pills; slit my wrists cos Iโm so motherf**king depressedโ – it gets a little grating and tiresome after a whileโฆ Sometimes I donโt want to be screamed at by some annoying little copycat attention seeker – call me old fashioned. So, boyds it is. Valeryan sings of the happy part of a birdโs life, but then she zones in on the swan. This swan having led a contented life – save the odd annoying little kid – sees that it is reaching its final days. It just knows, and it starts to croon. The other birds cry in apprehensive mourning as they wave their wings; a final goodbye. But although โSwan Songโ is literal at first, it then migrates for the winter, towards something closer to our own home. For we are not boyds. We are humen. Sorry, I pity the foreigners using Google Translate to read my articles. I mean Birds. I mean Humans. I just like to make my own woyds from toym to toym. The bridge of the song suggests that death is not always something that simply comes at the end of oneโs life. It can sever life when in its prime, which can be brought on by human tampering. Malaria – sorry, I call her Malaria in private (long story), and was about to talk about diseases – Valeryan mentions bird flu, SARS and CoViD. All manmade meddling. This is the point where the song goes deeper, and there is fault involved. Suddenly it is a โnature vs manโ theme. Always complicated.
So, the song begins as a neutral narrative with a somber undertone. Then we go full-on depression and blame. But finally we end up with a more positive outlook. โSure, millions caught the bird flu, but millions more remainโ – always look on the bright side of life. She then suggests that we shouldnโt worry that we might get ill and die, but instead that we should just make the most of life. I was lucky enough to hear the demo of โSwan Songโ and when I first latched on to โSure, millions caught the bird fluโ, I heard โJohn Williams caught the bird fluโ, but that is neither here nor there. Musically speaking, the song is a joy. A sad joy, but a joy. Valeryan has a voice like no other. It has experience, grace, and yes, age. But age is not a thing of shame, but a thing of pride! This fine lady has lived through years that most of us have only read about or been told about – complete with all the exaggerated yarns. She has also experienced the many sides of the music biz through all its peaks and valleys – complete with the exaggerated yarns. But now, she lives a quiet life in the English countryside with its acres of land, complete with the exaggerated barns. Valeryan has a voice of wisdom. It drips with an age of long ago. A time of tales and rumour. Like the lyrics, her voice is refreshing but also genuine. She isnโt just copying artists from decades ago. Because she WAS one of those artists from decades ago. She was part of the first wave of 60s singer-songwriters. As to the music itself, it all just flows with refined satisfaction. You may be surprised what you manage to pick out from repeated listens.
Despite the songโs title Iโm happy to report that this song is NOT the last from Valeryan, for I have heard that she is currently working on the next. I must admit, I was a tad concerned when I saw the title of the song, and bearing in mind that she is no spring chicken herselfโฆ But no. Life goes on, and so will the songs. We must ALL keep going and not lose faith. We must continue to make; to create. Even in the smallest ways. Otherwise there isnโt a great deal of point in being around.
The next time a bird poops on your head, make sure to mutter โfowl foulโ. It might get you through the trauma.
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